of the staff, among whom the duke had assigned
me a place, were so sanguine, that I felt some concern at their reaching
the ear of the captive aide-de-camp. This induced me to draw him away
gradually from the crowd. I found him lively, as his countrymen generally
are, but exhibiting at once a strength of observation and a frankness of
language which are more uncommon.

"I admit," said he, "that you have beaten us; but this is the natural
effect of your incomparable discipline. Our army is new, our general new,
every thing new but our imprudence, in venturing to meet your 100,000 with
our 25,000. Yet France is not beaten. In fact, you have not met the French
up to this hour."

"What!" I exclaimed in surprise; "of what nation are the troops which we
have fought in the Argonne, and are now following through the high-road to
Paris? The Duke of Brunswick will be amused by hearing that he has been
wasting his cannon-shot on spectres."

"Ah, you English," he replied with a broad laugh, which made me still more
doubt his nation, "are such matter-of-fact people, that you require
substance in every thing. But what are the troops of France? Brave fellows
enough, but not one of them has ever seen a shot fired in his life; even
the few battalions which we had in America saw nothing but hedge-firing.
The men before you have never seen more service than they could find in a
cabaret, or hunting a highwayman. Some of them, I admit, have served their
King in the shape of shouldering their muskets at his palace gates in
Versailles, or marching in a procession of cardinals and confessors to
Notre-Dame. My astonishment is, that at the first shot they did not all
run to their soup, and at the second leave their muskets to take care of
themselves. But they are brave; and, if they once learn to fight, the
pupils will beat the master."

"You are a philosopher, Monsieur, but, I hope, no prophet. I think I
observe in you something of our English blood after all. You have opinions,
and speak them."

"Not quite English, nor quite French. My father was a borderer; so not
even exactly either English or Scotch. He took up arms for the son of
James--of course was ruined, as every one was who had to do with Stuart
from the beginning of time--luckily escaped after the crash of Culloden,
entered the Scottish Brigade here, and left to me nothing but his memory,
his sword, and the untarnished name of Macdonald." I bowed to a name so
connected with hon